The First Terrace of Purgatory
by Lil black dog
Summary: I know this has been done to death, but this is my spin on what Kirk felt during Spock's death in TWOK, and how it fits with my personal canon. Essentially a H/C piece, heavy on the hurt, with virtually no comfort. Certainly not meant to be slash, but I suppose it could be interpreted as such.


A/N: I know this has been done to death, but this is my spin on what Kirk felt during Spock's death in TWOK, and how it fits with my personal canon. Essentially a H/C piece, heavy on the hurt, with virtually no comfort. Certainly not meant to be slash, although I suppose it could be interpreted as such.

This piece makes vague allusions to 'Six Degrees of Separation,' but one doesn't have to read that story to understand this one.

Beta: Many thanks to Elessar1201, who helped me whip this into shape.

**The First Terrace of Purgatory**

"Spock," I whisper, leaning heavily against the clear barrier that separates us. All kinds of scenarios ran through my mind during my headlong flight here, but I was unprepared for this. He doesn't stir—doesn't hear me within the confines of the chamber, or sense my presence through the mental link we share. So I open the intercom, call to him again, my voice gravelly, rough, as if I'd been the one subjected to lethal levels of radiation.

Slumped against the back wall of the reactor room, his posture radiates pain; screams it. _Sir, he's dead already…It's too late. _ God, no; anything but this. Inside my head, in that sacred, sheltered place he has occupied almost from the hesitant beginnings of our friendship, all is empty, black, silent. Since its inception nearly twenty years ago, the link has only gone totally silent once before. Miraculously, we were able to fix Gol.

We can't fix this.

He climbs to his feet…slowly, agonizingly. I watch him, knowing I should be able to feel every excruciating movement of his tortured, radiation-ravaged limbs, but my body is mercifully, inexplicably pain free—_it's too late. _Suddenly I am bombarded with the knowledge that this is but a whisper of what the future holds for me. Soon, I will be alone within myself as I have not been for a number of years now. My eyes are burning, my insides roiling, as if they are being consumed by an inner fire. My knees start to buckle, and I will them not to, for his sake. _Is this what he is experiencing_? I can't help but wince as he approaches, his steps halting, tentative, however I already know the answer. The link is as dark, as silent as it was that first time he left me, so many years ago, but this time there will be no chance at redemption; this silence will last a lifetime, and I'm not entirely sure I'll be able to survive it.

At last, he has made his way to the clear barrier—bumped up against it, in fact—and I realize with a jolt that he can't see me. The breath I was holding explodes from my lungs, condensing briefly on the see-through partition that separates us. Somehow, in the midst of my unimaginable suffering, I find this strangely comforting. Seeing the anguish, the horror, the unmitigated grief that I know I am radiating despite my best efforts to conceal it, would only add to his pain.

But there is nothing that can assuage my own pain, my own guilt, my own inner torment.

I did this. I alone am responsible, and the weight of that knowledge is heavy, crushing, perhaps more than I can bear.

Yet true to character, he is trying—logically, desperately—to ease my suffering; telling me not to grieve; assuring me that what has happened, what is about to happen, was done for the good of the many, despite the immense toll it will exact on the few, or the one. It is as it has always been; he is more concerned with my pain than his own. Will do whatever is necessary to protect me, shelter me, to keep me from harm. At least, that is his intention. Nothing in the universe can protect me from this, and he knows it.

"I never took…the Kobayashi Maru test, till now," he rasps. "What do you think…of my solution?"

Once again, he is attempting to divert my attention, to absolve me of blame for the situation unfolding before my eyes. My heart shatters.

"Spock," I plead softly, desperately, knowing that there is nothing I can do. I am finally facing a true no-win scenario. He drops those unseeing eyes from mine. I taste bile.

In the midst of wrestling with my own personal demons, another presence resonates peripherally, tenuously, throughout my being: _No! This can't be happening. If there is a God, please don't let this happen! It will destroy them both._ The sentiment screams McCoy, but I can't imagine how I'd be able to pick up on his thoughts, when Spock's are a closed door to me. Despite our deep and abiding friendship, I am not linked to the doctor as I am to my Vulcan brother. Correction—_was_ linked to him.

That will never be again.

For now, all is silence between us, just when we need each other the most, and I rail against the injustice of it all.

These thoughts instantly evaporate as he slips down the inside wall of the chamber. My motions mirror his, and we both wind up on our knees. _Spock! _I cry in my mind's eye, beating against the tightly-sealed door of the silent link between us with both fists. I have much to say to him, but not here, with so many others watching, listening. The things I need to tell him are meant for him alone. _Don't go! I'm so sorry, Spock. All these years, you and Bones have warned me that someday I'd have to suffer the consequences of my tendency to rush in where angels fear to tread. I was prepared for that; ready to take responsibility for my actions. But it was never my intention for them to affect you, to put you in harm's way. You should not be made to pay the price for my poor judgment. If Khan was looking to exact his revenge upon me he has succeeded, for my errors have cost me the noblest part of myself. I need you, Spock! Please don't leave me._ But he cannot hear my silent pleas, my hollow apologies. Or perhaps he can, and is just ignoring them, in an effort to spare us both. No matter, it hurts all the same.

"I have been, and always shall be, your friend." For him, this is tantamount to openly declaring the altruistic love we share for one another, and I am rendered speechless. He presses a radiation-scorched hand to the barrier. "Live long, and prosper," he wheezes, and I find that I can barely breathe past the stricture in my throat. I understand all too well the implications of those ritual words; realize just how little time we have left. I reach for his hand, knowing that I cannot touch him; cannot offer him the support, the comfort, the affection and sense of belonging he so desperately deserves in his final moments.

The link flares brightly for an instant, and I am enveloped in, buoyed by, his love and utmost regard for me. I try to send him the same, but the slender thread is gone, burnt out in a blinding flash as he collapses against the barrier. A ragged, bleeding mass of raw nerve endings now occupies the space in my mind so recently filled by him.

I am alone.

"No," I grind out, sliding down the exterior of the wall between us, shoulder to shoulder with my t'hy'la. No, I am certain I won't survive this.


End file.
